


The Changing of the Sea

by bluebeholder



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Coming of Age, F/M, Family Feels, Genderqueer Character, Growing Old Together, Kid Fic, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Multiple, Qunari Culture and Customs, Romance, Tal-Vashoth Culture and Customs, Unplanned Pregnancy, shades of therapist/client relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23986084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Even in the regimented world of the Qun, love is a powerful force. A Karasten falls in love with the Tamassran who counsels him, and together they flee south. Theirs is a hard road, and long, but worthwhile. Together, they live, grow, bear a child, and make their own path as Tal-Vashoth together.Their child will someday become the Herald of Andraste.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi and welcome to "bluebeholder has inordinate amounts of feelings about Tal-Vashoth and the Inquisitor's parents in general." I hope y'all enjoy this romance between the Adaar parents!

The Tamassran waits in her receiving room. A soldier recently returned to Qunandar has been assigned to her for counseling. The report given to her explains that he spent five years fighting on Seheron and gained great renown, earning a battlefield promotion to Karasten for his competence and leadership qualities. He and his comrades suffered a crushing defeat and bore witness to horrors that inflicted great pain on him. He has asala-taar. It will be her task to counsel him and assist him in regaining balance in his mind, and evaluate him to see what new role he will fulfill.

At a heavy knock on the door, the Tamassran raises her voice. “Enter,” she says, rising to her feet.

The door opens to admit a simply massive man, among the tallest she has ever seen, six and a half feet tall at least. She must look up at him. He is dressed plainly, practically, carrying no weapons. His dark hair has been shaved to his skull, and he bears no facial hair. He has a brutal scar down one side of his face, cutting close to one of his red eyes, and his horns have both been snapped off—not cleanly cut.

“Tamassran,” the Karasten says, in a deep, soft, mellifluous voice. He makes a respectful bow.

“Karasten,” she says, offering a placating and friendly hand. “It is an honor. Be welcome here.”

“I thank you,” he says, taking her hand as he straightens.

She watches his eyes sweep the room, watchful and calculating, taking in the surroundings. The furniture is comfortable, two low couches with a table between; the walls have thick tapestries with subtle fractal patterns; the lights are a gentle blue. This is a room meant to put even the most unsettled heart at ease, a place of peace. A person may sit in comfort, looking at things that calm and focus the mind. The tapestries muffle sound and keep the room quiet. And blue—though its effectiveness is hotly debated and studied—is traditional as a color of calm and serenity.

After a moment, she guides him to sit on one of the long couches. She occupies the other. “I have been told why you are here,” she says, watching him keenly. “But I understand that reports often leave out many important things. I would hear what has happened to you in your own words.”

He hesitates. “The things I have thought are not acceptable,” he says at last.

“You have a guarantee of privacy,” she says, folding her hands in her lap. “Unless you make it known to me that you are planning seditious action against the Qun or would do harm to yourself or another, the things of which you speak here will never reach the ears of another.”

“I trust you,” the Karasten says after a moment. He nods, and squares his shoulders. “Then hear the story and judge me as you see fit.”

His tale unfolds with the precision of a military movement. He was sent to Seheron already experienced from fighting in Tevinter, intended for a two-year tour of duty that stretched rapidly into more. Seheron was brutal and bloody and soon enough he was handed a battlefield promotion because there were no competent officers remaining. He had taken on the duties of a Karasten, of course, but by necessity had performed even more than that.

With great detachment, he describes the violent deaths of warriors he considered friends, of frustrated pleas sent to Qunandar for more firepower, more men, always seemingly ignored. His eyes light a little when he speaks of the beauty of Seheron’s landscape, its verdant life and beautiful animals, of the songs shared with his friends and the close bonds they forged, the bawdy and beautiful poems they’d written, the shared joy in victory. He lingers long on the sunrises over Seheron after the night battles, when the awful state of the fight was revealed by the pale, gentle light. But they darken again when he explains the incident that had him removed from the front.

“I was taken by the Fog Warriors,” he says. “The warriors under my command were slaughtered. I was to be an example, a trophy taken for one of the Fog Warriors. They restrained me and removed my horns. I would have died in the forest, but found my way back to safety. I was treated for my wounds and sent home.”

A deep silence settles over the room. The Tamassran waits for him to continue, but he does not. By his stillness, she knows he is restraining himself from an outburst of emotion that most Qunari refuse to express. It hurts her soul to see a man this way. She is a fair judge of character, and by his story she knows that he is a brave man, wise in battle and unwavering in his loyalty, a natural leader of men and, at heart, a poet.

“I thank you for sharing your story with me,” she says at last. “I will consider what ways we might work together to restore balance to your soul, Karasten.”

“I do not deserve the rank,” he says with a heavy shrug. “I am no longer in the Antaam, nor do I think I will be permitted to return to it.”

The Tamassran rises and goes to stand before him, hands on his broad shoulders. “I,” she says sternly, “will be the judge of that, Karasten.”

He gazes up at her. Where another might have bowed his head to her, he does not. His red eyes meet hers unwaveringly, and his lips curve in a slight smile. “As you say,” he says.

For all the rest of the day, she cannot banish the thought of his expression from her mind.

-

The Karasten is unsure of the efficiency of this assignment. He could simply have been assigned to the labor force and sent to build houses or ships, but instead his superiors decided that he should see a Tamassran for counseling. To the Karasten’s mind, this is a waste of resources. But it is not his decision.

At least, he thinks, walking aimlessly after his third session with her, this Tamassran is kind. She listens more than she speaks. Her luminous yellow eyes, the clear color of a plumeria flower, fix firmly on him at all times. He finds himself pouring out his soul as if he is a fountain spilling into a pool, setting loose all the thoughts and feelings he ruthlessly caged while he fought.

She encourages him to express his rage with his superiors who left his friends to die, the despair he suffered watching comrade after comrade vanish into the bloody mists, the numbness and emptiness that came with removal from duty. She offers him solutions—meditations, exercises—that he can try to bring peace back to his heart. She prescribes him medicinal teas, to help soothe sleep and lift the spirit when necessary. Though peace slowly returns, his doubts remain.

It seems as if she is the only one he can speak the truth to.

“There is no shame in any of this,” she says gently, in their seventh session, when he berates himself for doubting the Qun. “We all carry doubts. More important than our doubts is our action. You have served honorably.”

“Do _you_ doubt?” he asks, looking at her.

A dark flush rises in her gray skin and her gaze flicks away, to one of the hypnotic patterns on the wall. Her hands twist a little in her lap, the hollow gold bangles she wears ringing together softly. “Of course,” she says. “But I have always done my duty, Karasten.”

“And you have done it well,” he says. He looks at her, considering suddenly the beauty of her face, her wide nose and high cheekbones, and the loose single strand of curly snow-white hair escaping its diadem to fall over her forehead.

He’s been staring too long. She bites her lip, sharp teeth slightly exposed, and rises to her feet. “I think we are finished,” she says, folding her arms over her chest.

“Until next time, Tamassran,” he says, bowing again, as he always does.

As the door closes behind him, he feels a certain lightness in his heart. The Karasten makes his way out of the building, a space devoted to counsel and healing of the soul, thoughtful enough that he forgets to offer salutes of respect to the others he passes.

He walks the streets of Qunandar aimlessly. This is the heart of the Qun, and it shows. Here, the artisans—experts in their craft, one and all—have built a city of mathematical perfection, decorated in abstract geometric mosaics that glitter with tiles of fine colored glass edged in gold, with fountains and orderly gardens surrounding graceful domed buildings of dark wood and pale yellow stone. Great aqueducts run through the city on multiple tiers, supported by spectacular arches carved with statues of stern and beautiful Qunari of all races.

The Karasten is well aware that outsiders believe Qunari to be bleak and artless, but _that_ is only in the Antaam, where functionality precedes form. In matters of war, there is little space for aesthetic considerations. Here in Qunandar, though, beauty like this is shared among all.

He sees an elderly man in one of the open squares, telling a story to a group of children of varying ages while their Tamassran fosterers look on in amusement. It will be one of the wonder tales, in all likelihood, a story of some heroic myth that inspires children to greatness. The Karasten had enjoyed them in his youth, though now he knows the reality of such heroism.

After a while, his wanderings take him to the harbor. He has duties, of course; he cannot go without work for long. But they are simple, moving supplies onto ships headed to outposts in the south, and he is excused from duties on the days when he has appointments with the Tamassran. As the sun sets in the west, casting the clouded sky in the glorious colors of dragon fire and making the calm waters of the harbor seem to be made of rippling, glittering iron.

Absentmindedly, the Karasten begins to compose a poem on the subject, minded to write it down when he returns to the dormitory he has been assigned. But as the sun sinks lower and the shadows of ships stretch over the waters, the sky shifting into darkness, it occurs to him that he has begun comparing the colors of the setting sun to the Tamassran’s eyes.

-

There are some of her assignments that the Tamassran does not enjoy. But this one she does. The Karasten is soft-spoken and works hard to follow her advice and to make progress. His condition is improving and she is already determining what her recommendation for him will be, when the time comes for him to return to duty. He would do well in Kont-aar, with his gift for language and leadership; giving him a position in contact with potential converts would serve the Qun well.

Yet she finds herself delaying that final day. Their appointments have become less of counsel and more of conversation. He asks many questions of her, of her training as a Tamassran and her other duties as a record-keeper and mentor for younger Tamassrans. She has helped to raise children, but never as a true fosterer, though she has always liked the idea.

“I would, if I were asked,” she says.

“We would all do what we are asked,” he says. “Neither of us would struggle, no matter what we were ordered to do.”

There is something unspoken here, but she must prevent it being said. They are cutting very close to sedition. “Struggle is an illusion,” she says softly. “The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun.”

There is a weighty silence. He looks thoughtfully away at the tapestries on the walls and she watches him. The Tamassran has disciplined herself for her whole life to refuse her desires, since they are senseless. By law, she could never consummate them. Yet looking at this Karasten, hearing his voice speak poetry and watching his beautiful hands move, she feels desire. Not merely for his body, but for _him_.

“I have watched the sea,” he says at great length. “I have seen it wash red with spilled blood and burn with fire from oil spilled on the waves. I have watched it grow still and calm as a meditation, and seen it raise waves higher than the towers of Qunandar. I have seen it clearer than glass. I have watched it change colors from sunrise to sunset, and glow with the light of the stars, and with lights from its own depths. The sea _does_ change, Tamassran.”

“The Qun does not,” she says, and her voice trembles.

He looks at her, red eyes searching. A muscle in his heavy jaw works, as if he will speak, but after a long moment he merely sighs. “It does not,” he agrees.

-

When it happens, they do not kiss.

He has never lain with a woman before, never even considered such a thing. Instinct will have to do, the bawdier jokes and stories becoming something more real and beautiful. He feels clumsy when she joins him on his couch and slides into his lap. Her movements are graceful, trained; Tamassrans do provide physical comfort, and this is within the scope of her counsel, but they both know this is not a matter of profession. The flush in her cheeks, the tremble in her plump lower lip, is too strong for that.

They do not speak, either, because to do so would be to risk one of them breaking off the liaison and making the necessary report to the Ben-Hassrath. It is a silent affair, save for heavy breathing and the quietest of sounds.

And when it is over, they press their foreheads together. He simply gazes into her beautiful eyes and wonders if the Qun is wrong. If it is possible that this could be as powerful as the way to which he has dedicated his life.

“Kadan,” she whispers, claws trailing so gently down his cheek.

He closes his eyes and embraces her, soft curves and warm skin, heart beating painfully in his chest.

It is not their last such encounter.

-

She visits the lineage archives with a pit in her stomach and fear clutching her heart. No excuse is needed; she waves off questions curtly as a check into the lineage of one of her patients. None of the Tamassrans working in the archives pry. Her work is her own and she is trusted to do it.

Breeding is strictly regulated among the Qunari for many reasons, but the one that is kept most private is that certain lineages are _never_ to mix. There are things they carry—traits that cannot be permitted to be passed on without strictest oversight. There is a _reason_ that she has never been chosen to carry a child, that she has been advised to avoid providing physical comfort to patients.

The Tamassran checks herself first, confirming what she already knows. The old blood runs strong in her lineage, the ferocity of their glorious ancestors not forgotten. The talents of her lineage have been cultivated as warriors for generations and many of her ancestors were aqun-athlok. She showed no aptitude for it, and was therefore assigned to the Tamassrans.

Fear making her hands shake, she seeks out the Karasten. With growing dread, she reads his lineage. It is a near thing to avoid dropping the heavy book when she reaches the end. She puts it on its shelf and leans heavily against it, nausea making her stomach churn.

She and the Karasten are of different lineages, and in that way they are safe.

But the old blood runs strong in his veins, too.

Silence ringing in her ears, she presses a hand to her belly. The child she is _certain_ she carries will be exceptional. Any child of theirs _will_ be called ataashi. It is inevitable. Their lineages will produce something _unimaginable_. In the most ancient of days, the time before the enlightenment of the Qun, the child would have been called a blessing from the gods.

In these days, the child will be called treason.

-

They stow away together on a ship leaving Qunandar. His work on the docks makes it easy to load her and their supplies into a large crate and carry her aboard a ship going south to Kont-aar, the same ship that will be carrying him to his reassignment in the same city. Their child has not made itself evident yet, but he trusts her that she knows her body well enough to tell.

“We will be Tal-Vashoth,” he says one night, sitting in the dark of the cargo hold beside her. “We will be forever hunted.”

“I cannot abandon you or the child,” she says softly, resting her head on his shoulder. “I accept the price, no matter how high.”

Getting off the ship in Kont-aar is as simple as it was to get on in Qunandar. Almost too easy, but then, betrayal like this is never expected. It is one of the great oversights of the Qun: the belief in a utopia so perfect that no one would ever choose to leave.

They travel through Rivain together, mostly by night, following a rough map of the south purchased with the pawned Tamassran regalia she brought with her. He acquires a sword, not of the same fine make he had on Seheron, but good enough to fend off wolves and simple bandits. It is good that he spent so much time surviving in the jungles alone, because he has the skills to keep them alive. And she—she is brave, and stoic, and never voices a complaint of poor food or rough beds.

In Antiva, no one knows Qunlat anymore. She knows enough of the Trade tongue to get by, though most bas here speak Antivan, and they are reduced to crude gestures. He learns quickly not to smile too widely and show his teeth, or stand too close to anyone and loom over them. The bas all look at them with fear. But, as the child grows more evident, they are somewhat more inclined to be charitable.

An innkeeper, perhaps thinking of his own children playing by the hearth with the dogs, gives them a meager room and a place at the table for a night. He gives her the narrow bed, since he is far too tall for it, and sits with her a while, massaging her aching feet.

“I do not like feeling helpless,” he says after a while, listening to the humans singing and laughing in the hall. “Survival here seems the exception, not the rule.”

“This one is kind,” she says. Her skin has grown spotted from the sun, freckled in even darker gray, and her eyes are as luminous as ever. “He did not have to give us a room when we asked.”

“In our land, we would not have to ask,” he says.

She sits up, then, the ropes under the straw mattress shrieking a little, and leans on him. “In our land,” she says softly, “you and I would be in the hands of the Ben-Hassrath for reeducation.”

He swallows, past a hard lump in his throat, and embraces her tightly. “I will complain no more,” he says into her dusty hair. “I would not sacrifice you for _anything_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding names: the Qunari use social roles as names, hence the names at the beginning. “Tamassran” is a social role exclusively for women, who direct Qunari reproduction, raise children and evaluate them for social roles, and provide counseling for other Qunari. “Karasten” is an infantry commander, equated to a corporal. 
> 
> I couldn’t find any sources that provided a neat breakdown of actual hierarchy within the Antaam (the military branch of Qunari society) so I just rolled with the role of the corporal within the U.S. military. It’s a rare rank, almost unused in the modern Army, and primarily used as a “battlefield promotion” to give command authority to enlisted soldiers in situations when there are few officers. The rank was widely used in the Vietnam War—and Seheron is sort of the fantasy Vietnam of Dragon Age. It seemed appropriate.
> 
> “Asala-taar” is the Qunari term for “soul sickness,” akin to what we’d call shell shock or PTSD. 
> 
> “Aqun-athlok” is the Qunari term for someone born as one gender and living as another—someone born into one gender’s social role who lives their life in another due to aptitude. 
> 
> "Ataashi" means "dragon."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Topics of note here: pregnancy, childbirth, anti-Qunari prejudice, and mob violence.

They throw aside their old titles. How can they carry them, when they are no longer part of the Qun? They are Tal-Vashoth now. It makes no sense to pretend otherwise.

“We need names,” she says one day. They have crossed into the Free Marches, far enough south that they are sure there will be no pursuit from the Qunari.

“Do we?” he asks, looking at her with furrowed brows. “ _We_ know who we are.”

“True, but no one here will know,” she says. She looks around, at the wide, flat river valley through which they pass. The river is called Minanter, a strange and foreign sound on her tongue, but pleasant. “The bas will ask our names. We must answer somehow.”

He takes her hand and holds it tight. “You are right,” he says, and looks on her with the same smile that sealed her fate the first time they met.

For his name, he chooses a name of Qunlat origin: Ramaan, the title of poets that he had always secretly hoped to be given. He admits it at a midday break, almost contrite, as if he has done something wrong in _wanting_. She knocks her forehead lightly against his and embraces him.

“You have the soul of a poet, kadan,” she says. “It is the right name.”

And for her name she chooses to be called Isolde, a name she read once in a translation of stories from the south. The woman was a queen who fell in love with a knight and fled with him to live far from the rest of the world, much as she has fled with Ramaan. She vaguely remembers a tragic end to the tale, but resolutely puts that out of her mind.

“He must have wooed her with poetry,” Ramaan says, giving her that rare smile again. “Such is the way to a heart.”

“He must have,” Isolde agrees. “When he fell into her arms after some great quest.”

It is strange to be happy in these times. Her feet are aching and blistered. Pale stretch marks curve around her hips and abdomen, her back is curved and aching, and her breasts ache. She and Ramaan often have no roof over their head at night, or little food to eat. They are looked on with fear and her Trade is not good enough to assuage doubts among the bas.

Yet Isolde is more fulfilled, somehow, lying in Ramaan’s arms at night and listening to him recite poems he crafted silently during the day. It is good to prepare for the baby by making swaddling blankets and diapers, though she is nervous about giving birth with only Ramaan to help.

The Free Marches are beautiful in a way Qunandar was not: they are chaotic and disorderly and primitive, but the fields and forests and greener, the bas smile and laugh more freely than the reserved Qunari, and the sky stretches wider than it ever did on Par Vollen. At night, Isolde can see every star in the sky. Qunandar’s lights hide many of the stars from view, but here she can see them all in silver glory.

And it is good.

-

Their child is born in the earliest hours of morning, as dawn breaks over the land, in a long-abandoned barn in an isolated field. Ramaan holds Isolde’s hand through the night, pacing the floor with her over and over, bringing clean water from the half-collapsed well nearby. She is tense, biting her lip bloody rather than crying out in pain, embracing him at every opportunity.

In the end, he is the one who catches their child as Isolde crouches on the floor for lack of a proper birthing chair. It is a baby girl. Her first cry is _loud_ , filling the small room, and at the sound Isolde bursts into tears, smiling through them at the child. As Isolde lies down on the rough cot, Ramaan follows Isolde’s exhausted directions to cut the cord and clean the child up.

From the moment of her first cry, she is moving, kicking and reaching. When Ramaan touches her tiny palm, the child clutches his finger tight, and calms a little. Her eyes open wide, and Ramaan smiles to see that they are the same yellow as her mother’s.

At last, he returns their child to Isolde’s arms. For a moment, Isolde seems uncertain how to hold her, and Ramaan watches with bated breath. Then Isolde smiles and relaxes, holding the child much more easily, and guides the child to her breast.

Ramaan sits beside them, an arm around Isolde’s shoulders. She leans on him, head heavy against his shoulder. “What will we name her?” Isolde asks softly, watching the child nurse. A little hand beats lightly against Isolde’s chest, but the child is otherwise calm.

“She is already a wild one,” Ramaan says. He gently touches the child’s head, already with plenty of curly white hair, growing fluffy as it dries, and shivers a little with wonder. “Her name should reflect that, I think.”

“Something from the south?” Isolde looks up at Ramaan. “Something to help her fit in.”

He looks at the child, at the two tiny bumps on her forehead that already herald her horns, and at the soft pale claws on her hands that will darken soon enough into claws like his. “Isolde,” Ramaan says softly, “our child will never fit in. Not here. She is Vashoth.”

“Then we will give her a proud name,” Isolde says. “And teach her to be strong.”

Ramaan smiles. “A good idea,” he says. “You have thoughts?”

Isolde laughs quietly. “I am no good with names, kadan. You are the poet between us.”

For a moment, Ramaan reflects. Ranks, titles, professions…none seem appropriate, none quite right. His child will live apart from the Qun. No one will give her a place or assign her a meaning. She will have to choose her own path. She is already lost, though her life has barely begun.

“Kubide,” he says after a while. It is a soft word, made for poets, not for soldiers. It is for yearning, fear, nostalgia, loss. Yet it is also for hope and courage—a word he used to describe the dawn of a new day after a brutal battle on Seheron long ago. It is a word he could never begin to translate into Trade.

Isolde’s eyes fill with tears, a few rolling down her cheeks. She understands. “It is a good name,” she says. “Our child will be Kubide.”

-

With an infant, they can no longer afford to live as vagabonds. The road is not kind to a crying child and a mother who must stop often to care for her. The time of harvest is upon the Free Marches, and nights grow ever colder.

In Qunandar, they would have been given a place to stay and food to sustain them, but here they require money and work to get such things. It is ridiculous, but it is the way of this world. The idea of Ramaan seeking work as a hired hand is his, but it is Isolde who gathers her courage to speak to farmers and ask them if they have, perhaps, a space for the small family.

It takes three farms and a week of travel before they find a house that will take them. Isolde and Ramaan approach the door together, Ramaan carrying a sleeping Kubide. Fields of grain stretch out around the house, and off in the distance there are a few figures working. There are chickens clucking in the yard, and a cat lazing on the doorstep, and a vegetable garden full of ripe squash and verdant greens. The house itself is primitive—built of old, gray wood, with peeling shingles and windows of oiled paper—but after so long on the road Isolde can manage to think of it as welcoming.

She knocks on the door and, a moment later, a woman opens it. Her eyes fly wide at the sight of Isolde and Ramaan and she stumbles back a step, clutching the door. “What do you want?” she croaks after a moment.

Isolde is so tired of begging like this that she barely remembers her manners. “He is seeking work,” she says. “I am also willing—we have a child to care for.”

The woman looks up at Ramaan, and Kubide sleeping in his arms, and her face softens. Isolde looks down to see a small child half hidden behind her skirts, looking up at her with wide eyes. “How old is the baby?” the woman asks.

“A fortnight,” Isolde says. She holds her hands at her sides, open, unthreatening. It takes all her effort not to cry.

“Well…” The woman hesitates. At last she sighs. “It won’t do no harm for you to come in and get a little food and put up your feet. My husband will be back in by dinner and you can talk to him then.”

Isolde has to mind her horns in the low-ceilinged house, and Ramaan’s head nearly touches the ceiling. Neither of them complain. The woman speaks of nothing substantial as she bustles about, but gives them bread and cheese. There are three children, one of no more than two years, one of six, and one of eight; there are three more children, the woman says.

“And like as not to be a seventh soon,” she says with a shrug.

The children stare at Isolde and Ramaan, keeping their distance with round eyes. Isolde concentrates on Kubide, preferring her child to the stares of the human youth. Ramaan, whose Trade is still very poor, keeps quiet, and waits.

It is an awkward negotiation, when the woman’s husband returns, but he agrees at last that Ramaan’s strength will be an asset in the fields. Isolde offers her help as well, in tending the garden and other such chores. In return, they will have meals and a roof over their head, at least until harvest season passes. It is enough.

Over the season, Isolde studies the woman—Janet—carefully in how she treats her children. She is strict, but kind. No frippery is tolerated, since the family is too poor for that, but all the children receive kisses before bed and have lullabies sung to them. Between Janet and what Isolde remembers from helping raise children among the Tamassrans, she is a little more confident in her ability to raise Kubide.

When the children grow more comfortable around Isolde, the younger ones take a shine to playing with Kubide. It is good for her to have playmates, though she is too small for most games. Janet is very firm on that point.

As she grows, Kubide becomes quieter, though her voice is just as loud when she is unhappy. She watches the world around her with wide eyes, as if taking in every possible sight. Isolde carries Kubide in a sling with her everywhere. At night, when Isolde has to wake to feed her, Ramaan will wake and sit with Isolde, whispering Qunlat poetry he composed while working the fields that day. It is a tiring life, and when she thinks of the future Isolde cannot help but be frightened. But her family will be there. That gives her courage.

-

By the time that Kubide is two years old, through much hard work and careful saving of what money they can earn through odd jobs and farm work, Ramaan and Isolde have enough to purchase a contract on a small plot of land of their own, in the heart of Ostwick’s farm country. It is not enough to support their family entirely, being only eight acres, but they can produce enough oats to sell. They have a garden near the house, for vegetables; and there are wild fruit-bearing trees on the property, as well. Ramaan does not only practice farming—he hires himself out for trade in the nearest village, working as assistant to the blacksmith, helping to raise houses and fences, and so on.

He is proud of what he and Isolde have accomplished. It is hard work, but peaceful. In the heart of Ostwick, there are few brigands on the roads. Though the Tal-Vashoth are held at arm’s length, their reputation in the community is one he and Isolde strive to keep sterling. They do not go to the Chantry or community celebrations, but they offer help and charity where they can.

When Kubide is four years old, she has taken to following Ramaan everywhere. The little girl grows like a weed. She walked and ran earlier than he and Isolde expected, and by four she can easily keep up with him for most of the day. She will follow Ramaan through the fields, chattering all the while, playing with sticks and leaves she finds along the way. Often, he has to carry a sleepy Kubide home in the evenings.

It breaks his heart that he cannot speak to her the way he wants. He and Isolde agreed when she was an infant that they would teach her only Trade, not Qunlat. “The better to help her survive here,” Ramaan said. But his Trade is not as fluent as it should be, and he lacks the words for higher concepts. He can speak to his daughter only of mundane things.

Though it is right that she learn the language of the land she lives in, it is not the language of Ramaan’s heart. He feels for her no less, but has no way to express it save action. He brings Kubide gifts when he can, plays with her often, and holds her when she suffers nightmares. When she is nine, he makes her a rope swing over the creek bordering their land so that she can play there.

One day in late summer, they walk home hand in hand from a trip into the village. Kubide has a sweet roll in hand, eating it in careful bites to savor the rare treat as long as possible. She is quiet, for once, her endless chatter hushed by a long and tiring day.

“I love you, Da,” Kubide says suddenly, bumping into his side.

Ramaan looks down at her. Tall for her age, with baby-round cheeks and wide sincere eyes. His heart aches. He knows the word, but it does not carry the meaning of the things he might say in Qunlat to his daughter. “Love” is not enough. “Let me carry you, Kubide,” he says.

She smiles at him and lets him pick her up and carry her home.

-

At twelve, Kubide is taller than any child her age Isolde has ever seen. She towers over the human children her age, who are her playmates when the mood strikes her. Kubide is a friendly child, with a skill for talking that any Tamassran would envy, and despite the sideways looks that many parents give the family, Kubide easily charms the children of the village.

Isolde brings Kubide along every time she needs to go into town to market or to pick up the mending she does for extra work. It gives the little girl a chance to run and play. On this day, Isolde intends to purchase several things, and nudges Kubide toward the village green, where several of her friends play.

It seems Isolde has barely turned her back to examine some turnips when the shouting starts.

She whirls around to see Kubide holding a boy on the ground, screaming incoherently at him. A second boy is pulling at her arm, trying to get her off him, and a third is running toward her with a stick.

Isolde runs for the green, dropping everything in her hands. She trips over her skirt and stumbles, looking up just in time to see the boy with the stick strike Kubide across the back. Isolde shrieks at the sound of the blow, expecting Kubide to crumble.

Her daughter turns on the boy faster than Isolde thought possible. She seizes the stick in both hands and wrenches it away, snapping it across her knee and tossing it to the side. The snarl on Kubide’s face is terrible, her teeth bared and her eyes blazing with rage.

And then Isolde is there, grabbing Kubide by the shoulders and dragging her away from the boys. A few other adults have converged on the children, talking over each other and demanding to know what happened. The boy on the ground is sobbing, red-faced and snotty, with bloody scratches on his arm.

“What did you _do_?” Isolde demands.

Kubide looks up at Isolde and Isolde very nearly takes a step back. Kubide’s yellow eyes have sparks dancing in their depths. “He insulted you,” she says, voice low. “Said awful things. And wouldn’t stop when I told him to.”

Isolde is very, very aware of the eyes on them both. “Apologize,” she says.

“No,” Kubide says.

“Monster,” the boy sobs, clutching his father’s shirt.

“She attacked my son,” the man says.

“If I’d insulted his mother, he’d have hit me too,” Kubide snarls, turning around. The boy screams and stumbles back. Isolde keeps a firm grip on her daughter’s arm, though, and Kubide heeds her.

There is no sympathy on any face here. Isolde raises her chin a little, drawing herself to her full height, tall as the tallest man. “I’m sorry for her behavior,” she says. “We will discipline her at home.”

“See that you do,” the man growls.

Isolde pulls Kubide out of the village without looking back.

-

When they come with torches and swords, Ramaan has already packed everything the family needs and moved it down to the creek, out of sight of the house. He, Isolde, and Kubide sit together, in the shadows of the trees at the far edge of the field, as the men set the house on fire. Isolde does not cry, but Kubide does, in silent fits with her face hidden in Ramaan’s shirt.

A part of him wants to be angry with her, but he knows that he would have done the same, if someone insulted Isolde or Kubide. She has no reason for guilt. She only stood up for her family. What these men do now is more shameful than what Kubide did. Had it been any other child, they would not have done this. But it was _Ramaan’s_ child, and so these men think their actions right.

In silence, he holds his daughter and watches their life go up in flames.

In their travels, Ramaan finds ample use for his sword. His skills are rusty, but with a little practice he is in as good a fighting shape as he ever was. Kubide follows his motions clumsily with a long stick, brow furrowed in concentration.

“It is not fit work for a woman, but she must defend herself,” Ramaan says to Isolde one night while Kubide sleeps by the fire.

“There have been many aqun-athlok in my line,” Isolde says. “It will not trouble me to have a son, if such is what Kubide chooses.”

With that, Ramaan begins to teach Kubide in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ramaan” is an alteration of “Ramin,” who is the protagonist of a classical Persian love story of star-crossed lovers; I altered it to reflect the design of Qunlat a little more. “Isolde” is a reference to the tale of Tristan and Isolde.


	3. Chapter 3

After more than a year of wandering, they settle again in Wycome, in a fishing village on the coast. Again, people are wary here, but there are a few families of elves living here, and a few surface dwarves. Though Isolde’s family are the only Tal-Vashoth, they stand out a little less harshly. They take the surname Adaar; though they tell no one the meaning, that they have named themselves for weapons, it serves well enough.

Ramaan’s strength gets him easy work aboard fishing boats, hauling in nets and large catches. Isolde finds work again mending clothes and sails, and soon Kubide is old enough to take on work as well.

Isolde watches Kubide more carefully now. She is not quick to anger, but when she is angry—though she never strikes out at anyone again—her eyes look like they are on fire and her teeth and claws seem sharper. Isolde does her best to keep Kubide close and safe, but the older she gets, the more independent she becomes. She wanders the cliffs near the village alone, and sometimes Isolde can see her faint figure looking out over the sea.

At fourteen, she is nearly Isolde’s height; by sixteen, she is taller than Isolde. She works beside Ramaan on fishing boats, earning an equal wage. When Isolde watches them together it is plain that Kubide will soon be stronger than her father, and likely taller.

She is more withdrawn than she used to be, but when Isolde asks Kubide merely shrugs. “I don’t want to cause more trouble,” she says simply. And then she hugs Isolde. “Don’t worry about me, mama.”

Of course, Isolde worries. How can she not? But that is not what Kubide wishes to hear, and so Isolde merely hugs her daughter tight and tries not to think of the future.

-

Over the years, the feelings between Ramaan and Isolde have not diminished. He still writes Qunlat poetry for her, comparing the waves of her white hair to the foam of the sea and the curve of her ear to the whorls of shells he finds on the shore. When they are alone, she touches him with the utmost care and affection, traces his skin with her claws and calls him “kadan” in the same way she had long ago in Qunandar.

They walk together on the shingle when the tide is low, Isolde barefoot in the sand. At the village dances on holidays, they stay a little back from the crowd and dance together. When Ramaan has nightmares of Seheron, Isolde comforts him; when she cries from frustration over some mishap or social gaffe, Ramaan comforts her. There is no regret in his heart for what they have done, long and hard though the road has been.

Life in this small village is good. The tumultuous sea breeds trust, and those who work with Ramaan on their boats come to quickly trust him. He has pulled some men free from tangled lines, dived into stormy water to hold them above the waves, and helped haul in the most difficult catches. They tip their hats to him when they see him in the street, and speak of him with respect. These are a practical and pragmatic people.

Although Kubide often works beside Ramaan when he is on the boats, she is still a young woman and free of some responsibilities. Ramaan is pleased when Kubide makes a friend in Becca, a prim young woman about her age whose family herds sheep in the hills above the village. Often, the two of them are to be found talking and giggling over their shared secrets. More than once Kubide comes home with flowers braided into her hair by Becca. They are quite close, and often Kubide accompanies Becca up into the hills when she goes out to look after the sheep.

One spring day, the girls come running down from the hills, both hysterical. Kubide has a bloody gash on her arm and torn, bloody clothes. Through their panicked shouting, Ramaan gathers that would-be thieves set upon the girls while they were tending the lambs.

“Kubide took a sword from one and fought them off!” Becca says, clinging to Kubide’s side.

Kubide bursts into tears. “It was _awful_ ,” she sobs. “He bled so much!”

Vividly, Ramaan remembers his time on Seheron, and winces. As Isolde bandages Kubide’s arm, Ramaan holds Kubide’s shoulder. “That is the risk of fighting,” he says soberly. “There is always blood.”

-

When Kubide reaches the age of majority, she is taller than Ramaan. He stands an even seven feet tall; Kubide is almost half a foot taller again. Her fully-grown horns, smooth and elegant, arch up like those of the ibex that leap along the cliffs and add another half a foot to her height. Her body is strong from hard work; she can easily carry the heaviest sheep from her friend Becca’s flock, or haul in the most powerful fish without aid.

Her sword skill, with the training of Ramaan and a few veterans who make their home in the village, is advanced enough that by twenty she accepts that she is aqun-athlok. Among the family, at least, Kubide is Isolde and Ramaan’s son. Their neighbors still see a woman, though, which Kubide accepts gracefully—more gracefully than either of his parents.

Isolde is impossibly proud of her son.

But she can see the way that Kubide’s eyes ever turn to the horizon. She can hear the way he speaks of distant foreign places like Orlais and Ferelden. He speaks at length to every traveler passing through the village and begins to quietly set aside money, though he never speaks of plans to Isolde.

The time is coming when Kubide will leave them. Isolde can only wait. She makes her own quiet preparations, things she can send with Kubide when the moment arrives.

In the height of a dry, dry summer, there is a disaster in the village. Most, save the few dwarves and Isolde’s family, are attending Chantry services for Summerday. A well-respected cleric passing through with a Templar escort is giving the service. Without people on the streets, the village is pleasant and quiet save the screaming of seagulls overhead.

Isolde, Kubide, and Ramaan are down on the shore, enjoying the quiet together, when screams break out at the Chantry. Together they run to the Chantry only to find people rushing out, the Chantry ablaze behind them. In the dry heat the old wood is going up in a flash.

Ramaan hurries to join the people bringing water in a desperate attempt to stop the flames. The Templars are shouting commands, barely heard through the ruckus. Isolde follows Ramaan, thinking Kubide behind her, when the Reverend Mother’s voice cuts through the shouting and the crash of falling, burning timber.

“Sister Elaine is still inside!”

Isolde turns just in time to see two Templars running back up the Chantry steps, stopped as a massive flaming beam falls from the lintel to block the doors. Other beams fall, completely blocking the doors. The Templars stumble back in the face of the flames. Inside, over the roar of the fire, Isolde can just hear a thin voice screaming for help.

For a moment, there is dead silence.

And then Isolde watches her son run up the steps, pushing past the Templars. Heedless of the flames, he seizes hold of the largest beam and _heaves_ with a roar. The beam falls aside, the barricade crumbling, and Kubide leaps over what remains and vanishes into the burning Chantry.

“ _No_!” Isolde screams, reaching out her hands. 

With a sound like the heavens falling, the roof of the Chantry collapses.

All is silent save the howling roar of the fire, and Isolde’s sobs.

And out of the doors comes Kubide, the figure of the sister cradled in his arms. He steps over the remaining charred timbers, coming down the steps to set the trembling sister on her feet. “She’s all right,” he says into the stunned silence.

The crowd converges on him, then, shouting questions and cheering. Isolde watches and waits, trembling. There is not a single mark on Kubide—not a single burn.

-

Kubide is twenty-two when he leaves them. Ramaan has seen it coming; he and Isolde have spoken of it often. That does not lessen the ache when Kubide announces that he has heard of a traveling Tal-Vashoth adventuring company called the Valo-Kas, and wishes to join them.

Ramaan and Isolde give their blessing to the venture. How can they not? Kubide will do well in the profession, as strong and brave as he is. And he is too great in spirit to remain here, in the simple good life of a fisherman.

“Be safe,” Isolde says, when Kubide stands on the doorstep, pack on his back. Isolde has been quietly making sturdy clothes for him, a warm woolen cloak, a blanket. Ramaan found a map in a sturdy case, made a better scabbard for Kubide’s longsword. Kubide is outfitted as well as he can be.

“Don’t worry for me, mama,” he says, embracing her and smiling. “It’s a big, bright, beautiful world out there.”

Ramaan thinks of torches, of blood, of all the terrible things he has seen in his life. He looks Kubide in the eye, gripping his shoulder. “Our door is always open to you,” he says.

Kubide’s smile doesn’t dim as he embraces Ramaan. “I love you too, da.”

They watch as Kubide goes away, walking inland, a bright blue ribbon from his friend Becca braided into his long hair. He looks back, once, at the top of the hill, waving down at Isolde and Ramaan, and then he vanishes beyond the crest of the hill.

For a long time, in silence, Ramaan stands and holds Isolde as she cries.

They know very well that they may never see their son again.

-

Life, as it always does, goes on.

Isolde is fifty-four when Kubide leaves. Nearly twenty-three years she has spent in the Free Marches, almost half her life, and still they often feel foreign. The way of speaking in this little village of sheep-herders and fishermen is strange; the customs here are primitive. Yet she and Ramaan are still welcomed here, and that is enough.

Her gifts of Tamassran training have not deserted Isolde, and often now she finds neighbors coming to her to help resolve their conflicts. They pay in services or goods for her help, and her reputation spreads. A visiting merchant scoffs at her in the market, insults her, and though Isolde would have walked away she finds herself with a defender in the form of a young sheep-herder who she’d counseled through a difficult courtship. He stammers when she thanks him. It warms her heart.

Ramaan, fifty-seven, is as hale as he ever was, though his knees have begun to creak and he often complains of backaches. He still goes out on fishing boats, hauling in nets and the larger catches, and Isolde hears the salt of the other aging fishermen in his voice. But, though it is roughened by years of hard wear, his voice speaking poetry to her is as sweet as it ever was.

He takes up the lyre, on Isolde’s suggestion, and winter evenings by the fire become even more pleasant. Isolde, having with much practice discovered that she is adept with lace-making, works her art while Ramaan practices. Sometimes she will look up from her work to see Ramaan watching her over his lyre, fingers stilled on the strings, as if transfixed. Then she blushes, trembling inside as if young again, and smiles.

Three years after Kubide departs, news reaches Wycome of the Fifth Blight. Tales filter in of Grey Wardens, of demons, of all sorts of terrors—refugees fleeing Ferelden to the north, of disaster after disaster. Isolde and Ramaan do not speak of it, but both of them fear the worst for their son. A company like the Valo-Kas will be in high demand, to fight in such battles.

The wider world rarely intrudes here in this isolated village, but after six quiet years it _truly_ invades. Templars are on the move. The Circles of Magi are destroyed. War, real war, is afoot. The Free Marches are ablaze with the question of what must be done.

Isolde and Ramaan, fugitives from the Qun themselves, speak at length of the matter. They agree, though, that they must show the kindness that once was shown to them. When a battered pair of frightened, staff-less mages appears on their doorstep, they take them in. Ramaan feeds them; Isolde brazenly lies to the Templars hunting the mages.

It is not long after those mages leave that Isolde and Ramaan find themselves with another guest: a dark-skinned mage named Rhodes, of Rivaini descent, who claims to be a part of the “Mage Underground.”

“We need safe houses,” he says, tossing a rod—in place of a mage’s staff—from hand to hand. “You treated your last fugitives well. We won’t call on you often, but sometimes we’ll have mages who need to hide. Children. The elderly. The injured. Even Tranquil. Will you help us?”

“Of course,” Ramaan says. He looks at Isolde and in his eyes she sees the flickering of torches, the fires burning a house.

“We know what it is like to be hunted,” Isolde says. “Bring us your mages. We will help you.”

-

Four long years pass of constant war. Rhodes spoke truly: the Mage Underground rarely calls upon Isolde and Ramaan, but throughout the years they shelter a number of mages. Ramaan is always prepared to defend them by the sword, if necessary, but it never comes to that.

And then there is strange news: of a tear in the sky itself, a breach in the south spewing demons from the Fade, of the abrupt ending of the war of mages and templars as half the world scrambles to stop a disaster that could rip apart the world. News says that a leader has arisen, a figure called the Herald of Andraste, who wields impossible power and commands the whole force of an Inquisition dedicated to sealing the Breach.

“A Qunari,” a traveler from the south says to a gathering in the village square. “They call her Adaar. The Inquisitor. Survived being pulled into the Breach—saved by Andraste herself, or so the story goes. I’ve never seen her, but I’d like to.”

“A Qunari,” Isolde says with a laugh, when they are out of earshot of the rest of the village. “We cannot even be Chantry sisters and brothers. What would Andraste do with one of us?”

“The Maker,” Ramaan says dryly, “works in mysterious ways. Or so the Reverend Mother says.”

Isolde looks out over the sea. “Adaar. I wonder…” Her voice is soft, and trails away.

“There are many Tal-Vashoth who would take the name of a weapon,” Ramaan says. “Think no more on it, Isolde.”

He is seventy years old, now, and though he is still strong and capable, his eyes are not as good as they once were. Ramaan still works on the boats, but must tie knots by feel, and does not see close the way he once could. Isolde has a stooped back, and a broken hip from a fall. They are far from “doddering,” but they are no longer as spry as they once were.

The walls of their house are painted in geometric patterns that recall the mosaics decorating walls and streets in Qunandar. Although they are done from memory, it is good. Familiar. Their garden grows well, flourishing and producing greatly every summer, allowing them to preserve much for winter.

As far away as the Herald of Andraste lives, the respect she is owed still spreads. Tal-Vashoth, even Isolde and Ramaan, are looked on with a new sort of respect. Isolde, already valued for her wisdom, is treated with even greater reverence. Ramaan finds his words, too, in great demand. Their neighbors offer help and payment in goods, almost to excess. He and Isolde want for very little.

And if Ramaan misses his son, well. There is nothing to be done about it. Who knows what has happened to Kubide, in all these years? He can only hope Kubide has found a good life.

-

Every day, Isolde watches the sea from their doorstep. Gray and cold as the steel of a sword. Dark as wine. Glowing with the fire of the sun. Glittering with silver stars and the reflections of the moons. Ramaan was right, all those years ago; the sea _does_ change.

On this day, the bay is ruffled white with wind on the waves, lashed by rain. Autumn rolls in, cold and gray. The hills are soaked in mud and gardens drown in the water. It is too cold to go out. Isolde sits by the fire, working on lace with some fine thread; Ramaan plays his lyre idly, a new composition he has been working on for a fortnight or more. All is peaceful and quiet, until there comes a knock at the door. It is a heavy knock, firm and slow, not one Isolde recognizes.

Ramaan pauses in his playing and, outside, Isolde hears the heavy chuff of a horse and the stamping of a hoof. Whoever could it be? Slowly, almost nervously, she goes to the door and opens it, Ramaan behind her.

On the step is a towering Vashoth mercenary, holding the reins of a massive war horse in one hand. He wears battered armor of fine quality, mixed with worn clothes of beautiful fabric, and a long tattered red cloak. There is a sigil of a sword and eye on the breastplate, which looks like he tried to scrape off and failed. A massive greatsword hangs on his back, and there is a dagger at his hip. His boots are soaked with heavy mud.

His left arm is missing, cut off just above the elbow, neatly bandaged. When Isolde looks up, she sees that his long white hair is matted and dirty, pulled into a lopsided braid. His long horns are arched like an ibex’s horns, ridged; the claws of his remaining hand are long and sharp and dark; the tips of fangs protrude over his lower lip; his gray skin is dappled with small scales on the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. His eyes are closed, and they are bruised black with exhaustion as he stands on the step with his head hung low.

And when he opens his eyes to look at Isolde, they are molten gold, full of fire, rimmed with tears, and so heartbreakingly familiar.

“ _Mama_ ,” Kubide says, voice cracking, and lurches forward into Isolde’s arms.

Isolde wraps her arms around Kubide as her son buries his face in her shoulder, sobbing. Ramaan steps beside them and pulls them both into a tight embrace, silent, trembling. Isolde strokes Kubide’s back, whispering soothing nonsense the way she had when Kubide was a little girl with a scraped knee.

At last, Kubide steps back and looks up, tears staining his face and soaking the high collar of his shirt. He looks at Ramaan. “I’m home, da,” he says, husky.

Ramaan knocks his forehead against Kubide’s lightly. “Let me take care of your horse,” he says gently, taking the reins. 

Isolde guides Kubide inside, while Ramaan takes the horse to the shed. There will be time for news and stories later. Time to find out what happened to Kubide through all these years. But for now…for now, her son is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Big, bright, beautiful world” is a reference to the opening number of the Shrek musical. Yes, the Shrek musical, you heard that right. It’s appropriate. And if you haven't watched it, it's worth seeking out (I believe it's currently on Netflix). 
> 
> You may recognize Rhodes from another fic of mine: [_sound, substantial flesh and blood_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23984800), which deals with Anders reforming the Mage Underground after Kirkwall. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!! <3


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